


Diary of A Young Man

by Deerstalker221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Arranged Marriage, Based In 1912, Best possible ending you can imagine :D :D :D, Farmer John, Historical Facts Probably Not Accurate... I'm useless at researching, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kid Fic, Kid Irene Adler, Kid John, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Kidlock, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Underage Sex, what even is tagging?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 09:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deerstalker221/pseuds/Deerstalker221
Summary: Molly Hooper is Sherlock's best friend and has a crush on him through school. When something ... Not Good ... Occurs at the Holmes Estate, it takes little time for the village people to hear about it. Years later, after the tragedy has taken place, dear little Molly Hooper takes a stroll up the hill to call on the Holmes estate and finds Mycroft Holmes, the eldest son. After a lovely long chat with tea, Molly enquires about anything Sherlock left behind and is gifted his old journals.*!*!*!*!* TRIGGER WARNING *!*!*!*!*This story contains suicide and abusive parents and reference to rape! Please do not read if this will affect you!





	1. Gaining Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't any bad things in this chapter, I will let you know when the nasty stuff is! :D
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> *!*!*!*!* TRIGGER WARNING *!*!*!*!*
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> This story contains suicide and abusive parents and reference to rape! Please do not read if this will affect you! 
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> *!*!*!*!* TRIGGER WARNING *!*!*!*!*

Rain hammered to the ground, sludgy puddles littered the pathways and roads of the little village. The tearful sky held a mournful grey that hadn't seemed to change it's shade since the dreadful day of July 20th 1912. It remained a stark tapestry of pathetic-fallacy. The sun, barely able to emit it's golden tendrils through the sobbing sky pickled Molly's eye as she stared at the damp day beyond the window of the little house that her, her husband and three children shared. 

"What's up, Mol?" The gruff voice of Molly's husband, Greg Lestrade pierced through the woman's reverie. Molly shook her head silently, and as she struggled to find the words to describe her emotions settled on shrugging. She felt the soft touch of Greg's lips to her mousy brown head. "It was today, wasn't it?" He asked, knowing he'd get no answer. Molly felt her husband wrap his arms around her waist and rest his chin on her shoulder. "Why don't you visit them?" Molly heard him ask, she glanced at him and followed his gaze to the Holmes Estate at the top of the hill. Molly felt tears prick her eyes as she remembered waiting for her friend, her best friend, at the bottom of that gate. She remembered the emerald green rolling hill that was now but a muddy slope. She remembered when each window of the large building shone twinkling light. Each villager lulled to sleep by the harmonic tunes the youngest Holmes played them with his violin. It was all too much. How could she ever just turn up at the Holmes' door after all this time?

Molly broke out of her husband's grasp and kept her back to him. "You want me to go visit?" She asked, barely above a whisper, her voice trembled. Greg watched her carefully, eyes never leaving her slender cotton dress-covered form. "And say what, _Greg_?" She spat out his name as if it was a curse word. Greg flinched and Molly's fierce expression softened slightly before she continued. "My condolences for thirty-five years ago?" She let the question hang in the air before huffing in defeat. "I can't do that." She whimpered, a tear fell down her softly wrinkling cheek. 

Greg ambled closer to her and wrapped her back close to his body again. "No, darling. I meant, why don't you just talk to them. It's been years since any of them saw you, right? They will appreciate the visit, even after all this time." Greg told her, he unlatched himself from around his wife. Molly watched him leave the room, feeling the pang of loneliness, even though she had been alone for but a second. Greg returned with Molly's long coat and scarf, handbag hanging from his own shoulder. 

Molly stared at the picture Greg presented. The love she felt for the man doubled warmly as he moved forward to help her into her coat and scarf. As he bundled her up and placed the bag over her shoulder, Molly felt a conflicting emotion, the anxiety and self hatred, the knowing of what she was about to do and how her presence could affect the Holmes family after all these years. As Greg ushered Molly out of the house, Molly turned back and touched his arm. "What about the children?"  
"I will collect them. No need to worry." He told her and waved his goodbye at the retreating figure of his wife. 

Molly sighed as the wintery chill wrapped its cool devilish hands around her slight frame, the icy drops of rain tortured her silken and aged skin, anxiety gripped her heart and chilled the woman inside whilst the cold weather chilled her from the outside. Molly shivered slightly as she trudged through the village. People waved and greeted her with the appropriate greeting per the time of day and she nodded and gave a response of her own. Until she finally reached the foot of the hill that lead to the Holmes estate. Lining the very base of the hill was a wrought iron fence that lined the perimeter of the Holmes property. The black paint on the fence had chipped, the large gates remained swung open, the hinges had rusted to the point where they were one thick piece of metal. 

Molly continued passed the gates, trying her upmost to ignore the golden hazed images of children playing from her memory. The hill seemed no less brutal on her thighs as she climbed. The concrete path that used to lead up to the manor had been covered in slippy and thick damp mud, the rain added an extra layer of difficulty as Molly's feet slid across the hard surface. She had muddied her hands several times through catching herself from falling. 

The relief flushed through Molly's veins as she finally reached the large ominous door to the Holmes manor. The relief seemed to curdle with the dread that whisked through her belly. She reached a trembling hand and pressed the doorbell. It chimed loudly from inside as Molly waited, shivering against the cold. 

Footsteps clicked on the marble flooring, echoing through the door, the sound diluted by the rain slapping against the ground, they got louder as the person on the other side marched closer. The steps stopped abruptly at their loudest and the door inched open slightly revealing the haggard and battered form of Mycroft Holmes. The eldest son. "Little Molly Hooper." His voice cracked from lack of use and age, as he drawled his mother's childhood nickname for the woman. His calculating gaze roved across the woman's body. "Goodness, you must be freezing, come inside." He told her before opening the door wider. She released the breath that she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Molly bowed her head in thanks and stepped briskly inside. Her muddy and wet shoe slipped on the smooth marble. Molly squeaked as her centre of balance shifted dramatically, her voice echoed as she began to fall. A firm hand appeared at the small of her back and her elbow. "Careful." Came Mycroft calm and calculated voice. 

Molly righted herself and smiled gratefully at Mycroft, her eyes flicked about the foyer. It seemed so long ago that her and her friend had ran through this very room. However, this present day picture seemed so much duskier, the smog from the large cities seemed to bypass the surrounding village and straight into the Holmes Manor. Mycroft cleared his throat, snatching Molly's attention from the house. Her eyes fixed on him before slipping to the long streak of black mud contrasted against the white marble below. The woman gasped and reached a hand for Mycroft. "Oh! I'm so sorry! So, so sorry!" She began her mantra of apologies. Mycroft rolled his eyes in irritation and nodded briskly.  
"It's fine, Molly. Don't worry." He spoke calmly. "Lets move this into the lounge, there is a fire going there." He gestured to the far room. Molly followed his gesture with her eyes.  
"Oh, yes, of course." She smiled meekly before turning. Mycroft grabbed her arm.  
"Molly." He caught her attention, he nodded down to her shoes. "Perhaps, you should leave them here." He asked her. 

The woman glanced down to her shoes and grinned unapologetically. "Of course." She slipped out of them and stood on the cold tiles in her socks. She met Mycroft's eyes who smiled once and slipped passed her and to the lounge. Molly followed him. The room was larger than she remembered, the cold grey was banished to behind the window pane. The golden light from the fire illuminated the room, turning the red carpets a dark orange, the white wallpapered walls flame yellow and the shadows cast across the room danced with the licking fire. 

Mycroft made his way to a tall backed arm chair and slumped down into it, he gestured to the opposite chair. Molly took her seat, she remembered Mister Holmes had always chosen to sit before the fire. That often was all she would see of the man, when she was a child, his bald reflective head poking above the tall back of the red carpet chairs, and a small skinny ginger haired boy sat opposite him, Mycroft Holmes. 

"So after all these years what has brought you here?" Mycroft asked as he reached for the side table, he removed the stopper from the decanter of whisky. "Would you like some?" He asked.  
"Yes please, it might warm me some." She giggled nervously. Mycroft didn't return the smile and allowed the amber liquid to slither out and into the tumbler, he poured two fingers for Molly and three for himself. He replaced the stopper and then put it back on the side table. He passed the glass to Molly and reclined back into his own chair. He raised his eyebrow in prompt.

Molly took the glass and blushed brightly when she realised she had forgotten to answer the Holmes. "Oh, sorry." She muttered. "I was... I was thinking of..."  
"Sherlock." Mycroft answered for her.  
"Yeah, I was thinking of Sherlock. And I, well I thought it..."  
"Your husband suggested you come here, to lay some of your demons to rest, I presume." Mycroft rolled his eyes. " _Sentiment._ " He growled to himself. "So. You decided it was a good idea to come up and say 'hello.' Possibly even have a  _natter_ with Mummy."   
Molly nodded, she hoped that she was used to Mycroft's deductions, especially after being subjected to them since her childhood. "Yes, I suppose." She muttered.

A sigh broke through the room. "Mother and father are dead." Mycroft muttered. You could have heard a pin drop after that news.   
"They're?" Molly couldn't finish her sentence, she felt all colour drain from her face.  
"As for your 'demons'. The environment has not changed in this house since that day." Mycroft almost snapped, his voice was bitter. 

Molly glanced at her glass and took a large gulp. The silence was pregnant and heavy. "Forgive me." Mycroft muttered and tried to loose himself in his own glass. Molly held up a hand to ward off his apology.  
"No. Don't worry. I came here opening up old sores."  
"They never healed." Mycroft muttered darkly.  
"Of course." She muttered and glanced away.

Mycroft watched Molly carefully. She met his eyes. "Is there anything I can say or do to make your trip worthwhile?" Mycroft muttered with a sheepish smile. Molly had never thought she would ever see Mycroft be sheepish. She remained silent as she thought, she drank the rest of her glass before replying.  
"Have you got anything left from him?" She asked.  
Mycroft glanced up from his glass and smiled softly. "I have something I'd have thought he'd want you to have." He muttered and reached below his chair. "I have had them for months, and I haven't learned anything I didn't already know, maybe you will be able to gain some peace by them." He told her. 

Molly reached towards Mycroft and took the three books. Each one identical, red leather, soft to the touch, the spine wrinkled and worn. Each book had been well loved. "When do you want them back?" She asked.  
"Keep them." He told her. 


	2. Dear Diary... 6th January 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly reads the first journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you for deciding to read this! This chapter is completely safe save for a tie bit of fowl language!

Molly blinked her eyes open, the thick blanket of darkness still had it's hold on the village, she glanced about the room. Silky black shadows clung to the corners and spanned thickly across the room. Beside her, Greg lay softly snoring, Molly smiled and swung her legs out of bed and, the cold laminate flooring chilled the soles of her feet until she slipped them into her moccasins. Wrapping her cotton dressing robe around her shoulders she slipped from the room. 

Down the hall, also bathed in darkness, Molly peaked in to see the children sleeping, two boys and a girl each one curled up in their bed snoring softly. Molly smiled maternally before gently latching the door closed once again and making her way to the kitchen. She put the kettle to boil and leant against the kitchen counter. In comparison to the Holmes family manor, the Lestrade household was more of a mud hut. The rooms weren't very tall, the walls were bare save for pictures of Molly, Greg and the children. The windows were grimy, no matter how many times Molly scrubbed at them, she was never able to make the sight through them clear, they always appeared distorted and awkward. 

The house was sparsely furnished, along the walls were cheaply made shelves, and cabinets stood against the wall made out of the same inexpensive wood. The table and chairs in the kitchen were simply made, six chairs, one large table with mug rings and stains from the children. The front room had barely anything, an old rug carpet from Molly's mother, a small fireplace, two ghastly green chairs and a matching sofa stood in the centre of the room. Molly smiled at her quaint little house, all her family still asleep.

As she waited for the kettle to come to a boil, her handbag caught her eye, the red leather of the diaries stuck out in the corner. She slipped over to them and pulled them out, flicking through them. She hummed in thought before making her tea and turning down the hob. Molly padded into the family room and curled up in one of the horrid green chairs, her knees drawn to her chest as she set her tea down on the table beside the chair and flicked the first, older book open to the first page. " Alright Sherlock, what have you got for me?" She asked no one in the room. 

 

________________________________________________Sherlock's POV ____________________________________________________

 

Saturday the 6th, January, 1912

 

Mycroft gave my this stupid book. I want to burn it just to spite him, but Mummy seems to think that getting my thoughts down on paper may help me stop being so erratic. I highly doubt it... However, I told Mummy that I would try it, even though I am certain no good nor bad would come of this. 

Firstly, this is a journal. Little girls have diaries, scientists have journals. So, for my little experiment for Mummy, I will document my emotions - Pah! - And my experiences day by day... This is going to be tedious, I can already feel it. It is my birthday today. I hate it. Why can't people just leave me alone, or if they feel they should give me a gift, then something useful. However, this is not the case for most people, which is why I hate it so. Father bought me a cane with a knife inside - he said it would make me more of a man. I don't see how it will, especially since I am a thirteen year old boy. Only age will define me as a man. Mother bought me a new hat, saying it made me look handsome. Beauty is developed at a young age through being exposed to stimuli. Now Mycroft bought me this damn journal... Tedious, I hate repeating myself. Now Irene, the woman who I am supposed to marry when I come of age - it doesn't interest me in the slightest. To be perfectly honest - although I don't know why I am being honest to a book, it's not like you can judge me for my lies. But, I have always preferred men, especially hard working men. I'm not too sure why, especially since everyone seemed to think that this sort of attraction is unnatural and wrong, if it were so, then why am I not attracted to women, or better yet attracted to no one whatsoever?! That would be glorious. But as it is, the attraction to the same sex is obviously not controlled by man nor woman, but by the force of nature. But Irene gave me a pair of leather gloves for the cold season, she then expected a kiss in return. I refused. She got a handshake. 

I refused to see the other relatives, however, I am sure Mummy and Father enjoyed the attentions of those people who were nothing more than strangers to me, but people I had to at least greet out of manners. 'I am a Holmes after all.' I never stayed much at the parties and felt much more comfortable sending our stable master, Mr Stanford - or as I called him 'Mike' to fetch Molly. Her fondness for me is unappreciated, but at the same time it is easy to overlook. She is a bright young woman, it is sad she was born a woman as the world is too cruel to women. It's strange I feel that sentiment towards her, but she is one of my only friends. She will be brought up from the village, a girl who had originally visited our estate to fix one of Mummy's dresses, Molly's mother is a seamstress, a very good one at that apparently. I remember meeting Molly and we played outside in the mud all day. That was fun. We both got a hiding for that though. 

But since our early years together, Molly and I have often spent time together, I have even convinced father to enrol her at my school. I refused to go unless my only friend attended with me. Molly's mother seems happy for her. I don't particularly care about that, as long as me and my friend can play together. I think today we are going to be pirates, she will be a ferocious lady pirate, and me a conniving pirate. 

I told Molly that we have to play far away from the stables. There is a new man in my father's employ. Well, I say 'man'. He is seventeen, the same age as Mycroft. Mr Watson. Apparently his family are very poor and he needs the work. I have only seen him a handful of times, but I must say... or write... that he is a very good looking man. Blue eyes that seem to hold the entire sky. A gentle smile, his skin tanned and soft. His hair as golden as the sun. I told Molly that we couldn't play near there because Mike had a dangerous job he needed to do and it would be bad if we played there, Molly doesn't seem to know that the real reasoning is that I don't want John to see me playing. Especially as a pirate. I am thirteen for god's sake!

Anyway journal, I will have to end this entry here. 


End file.
